Canary Song
by MaelstromVortex
Summary: A murdered husband, a missing wife. When Delilah Bergman goes missing from Diamond City, Detective Nick Valentine becomes the prime suspect. Valentine is in a race against time to save her and clear his own name before it's too late for the both of them. - Story takes place before the events of Fallout 4. Some non-canon elements, including characters.
1. Chapter 1

It was around dusk, a greenish hue had descended upon Diamond City like a thick blanket. Thunder rolled in the distance, making the atmosphere all the more ominous. It was the perfect night for a walk. Nick's back rested on the side of a building facing the Diamond City Market, his golden eyes flitting between the sky and the Market. There were still a few people milling around but most were already tucked away, seeking shelter from the coming storm.

Nick slipped a carton of cigarettes from his pocket, glancing at the worn paper packaging. He ran a metal thumb over the letters on the package. _Grey Tortoise_. Not exactly the most elegant of names. Not that Nick was picky. Smoking wasn't exactly his habit.

Thunder clapped once more, this time, closer. Radiation storms were fairly common across the Commonwealth. A constant reminder of the dangers of the world. Being a synth, however, he didn't exactly have to worry about radiation. Nick pulled a cigarette from the carton and lifted it to his lips. Something about the feeling of a cigarette in his mouth was almost comforting. A memory began to surface in his mind. A memory of Nick, the old Nick. The Nick that died two hundred years ago. The memory was hazy. Something about an office. The old Nick was sitting at his desk, picking through old case files that were piling up. There was an ashtray overflowing with cigarettes. The old Nick took the spent cigarette from his mouth and twisted the butt into the armrest of his chair before flicking it into the ashtray. Without a moments hesitation he was already digging into his coat pocket for another fix. He smoked like a train when he was stressed and it was just one of those days.

Every flashback, every resurfacing memory, was a cruel reminder of how Nick wasn't real. He existed, he was standing in the Diamond City Market but his thoughts, his memories, and even his hopes weren't his. They belonged to the old Nick. Had he not gone into the Institute, Nick wouldn't exist. He would just be another mindless drone steered by a puppeteer's hand.

Nick tried to shake the memory as he pulled a match from his pocket and lit the cigarette. A soft red glow lit his face as the ember began to burn. Smoke curled up and around his hat, shrouding his face. He imagined it made him appear more ominous. Even in Diamond City some still regarded him with fear and hostility. Then there were others still who came to him for help. That's why he was there. Glancing back towards the alley behind him he could see the soft pink glow of his agency's sign. _Valentine Detective Agency._ He'd seen people at the lowest point in their lives inside that agency; desperate for answers. They put aside their reservations about what he was because they knew he may be the only one that could, or would, help.

With a mechanical sigh, Nick began to walk.

Colonial Taphouse. No more than a hole in the wall bar, it still offered some creature comforts to the residents of the Commonwealth. The air was stale with cigarette smoke and the smell of sour whiskey. The spirits offered tasted a tad bit like battery acid, at least to Nick. Drinking was by no means necessary for his survival and he chalked the habit up to the ghost of the old Nick. As soon as he had stepped into the dimly lit establishment he could feel eyes on him. He settled his hat lower on his head and made his way towards the bar, taking a seat at the far end.

"Good to see you again Nick." Nick looked up from beneath the brim of his hat, meeting soft hazel eyes and a warm smile.

"Same to you, Delilah." Delilah Bergman finished wiping the rim of glass with a wet rag and crossed her arms. Despite her smile Nick could see the dark rings beneath her eyes. Her auburn hair was thrown into a loose bun and her button down blouse was stained and wrinkled. She looked like she hadn't slept in days.

"Where have you been? Haven't seen you around lately." She punctuated her words with a raised eyebrow.

"I've been around. Lots of new cases to chew through." Nick saw Delilah's smile falter for just a moment. He regretted bringing up the topic. There was one case on his desk, still open, labelled "Don Bergman". The scene he'd come across mere weeks ago was brutal. Don Bergman, late husband of Delilah Bergman, was gunned down in cold blood on the outskirts of Concord. He'd had been peppered with so many bullets his body was barely recognizable. There was no evidence at the scene about who wanted Don Bergman dead. No suspects. No leads. The only thing Don Bergman had on him was a box of cigars, a bundle of roses and a note. Nick remembered every word of that note. _To Delilah, the love of my life._ He'd interviewed Delilah for hours about her husband; who he was and who might want him dead. This to turned up nothing but dead ends and heartache.

"Listen, Delilah if you need anything" Delilah cut Nick off with a raise of her hand.

"No, Nick. You did everything you could. I'm fine." Delilah offered the detective a weak smile. "Now you just gonna sit there or are you gonna order a drink?"

Another snippet of memory came flooding forth into Nick's consciousness. Another sleepless night of booze and cigarettes for the old Nick. He was slumped over a table in a bar, the sound of jazz drifting in and out. He stared into a nearly empty glass of scotch, the amber liquid reflecting the light of a dusty lamp.

 _"Hey buddy. Last call. Bar's closin' down"_

The old Nick looked up, squinting into the barkeeps face.

 _"Jesus brother, your gal just break up with you or somethin'? You look terrible"_

"Whiskey. Callaghan's" He was stuck in his latest case. A girl was murdered, no more than six years old. The old Nick felt sick just thinking about the case. The trail was going cold fast and he'd promised her parents he'd catch the sicko who took away their baby girl.

"Nick? Hey Nick—you alright?" Reality gradually faded back into view and Nick was met by a concerned looking Delilah.

"Huh? Oh right. You don't happen to have any whiskey by chance? Callaghan's?"

Delilah rummaged beneath the counter and produced a dusty bottle. The label was cracked and peeling but it was definitely a bottle of Callaghan's. She poured Nick a glass and slid it towards him.

"Here you are. A fine glass Callaghan's aged somewhere along the lines of two hundred years. Courtesy of yours truly"

Two hundred years. Nick almost forgot it'd been that long. Though he'd been stuck in a trash heap for most of it.

"How much?"

Delilah shook her head.

"After all you've done. It's on the house."

"Thank you Delilah." Nick reached towards his glass, his skeletal hand catching the light. From afar Nick could pass as any other human in the Commonwealth. Until one looked at his right hand. His right hand didn't exactly scream 'human'. That and the fact that, over the years, his synthetic skin had begun to tear. More and more holes were forming, showing his robotic interior within. Nick, suddenly feeling fairly self-conscious, pulled up the collar of his trench coat and shrank down into the stool.

"So how's business?"

Delilah gave a half-hearted shrug. She'd taken over the bar after Don died. Nick had recommended she take a rest but she'd disagreed saying, "it's what Donny would have wanted".

"As long as the liquor flows, people trickle in"

Nick glanced around the bar. There were a handful of people scattered about. Some sitting at worn wooden tables, others sitting in lounge chairs towards the back of the bar. The door to the bar opened sending a gust of wind into the room. Turning around in his stool Nick caught the eye of a thin, lanky man. The man wore a dirty, what Nick assumed was once white, button-down with pants that seemed several sizes too large for his thin frame. The way the man sauntered in, he was clearly already tipsy. The man plopped down in the stool right next to Nick's.

"Hey what're the chances I could get a nice cold beer, baby?" The man offered Delilah a toothy grin before sliding over a handful of caps.

"Depends. What's your poison?" Delilah offered the man a polite smile as she grabbed a glass from beneath the counter.

"Doll," The man leaned over the bar towards Delilah "I'll have whatever you're offerin' on this fine commonwealth night."

Nick narrowed his eyes at the man. He seemed a bit too friendly towards Delilah. But he knew she could handle her own so he went back to his own drink.

Delilah turned to grab a beer from the shelf behind the counter causing the man to give her a low whistle.

"Now that's sight I could look at all night, baby"

Delilah turned, batting her eyelashes.

"Sorry hun, I'm not on the menu tonight"

Nick shook his head with an amused smile. She'd probably con the poor guy out of his life savings by the end of the night. He'd seen her do it before. All it took was a little casual flirting and men would practically be throwing caps at her. But in the morning they'd leave broke, hungover and full of heartache for a romance that would never be.

"Names' Greg. Just blew into town and boy are you the best sight I've ever seen."

Delilah slid Greg his beer before putting her elbows on the counter and resting her chin on her hands.

"Delilah. It's awful nice to meet you Greg."

Greg took a swig of his beer, never breaking eye contact with Delilah.

"Not even this beer is as refreshing as lookin' at you."

Nick had to bite his lip to keep from letting out a laugh. Greg's performance was by far the worst attempt at wooing a woman he'd ever seen. He was surprised Delilah could keep on going with a straight face. Other patrons at the bar had begun to steal glances towards Greg and Delilah as well.

"You must be pretty strong to brave the Commonwealth all by yourself."

Greg leaned back, puffing out his chest which somehow made him seem even scrawnier.

"Nah. I was practically raised out in the wastelands. Deathclaws' got nothing on this"

Nick let out a snort of laughter that he covered up with a fake coughing fit. He looked at Delilah who was mustering her best impressed look.

"Wow." She twirled a lock of hair between her fingers and batted her eyelashes again. "I bet you could fight off a whole gang of raiders."

An arrogant smirk crossed Greg's face.

"Raiders? Raiders ain't nothing. Flash a pistol and they'll scatter like radroaches." Greg took a long swig from his beer, finishing off the bottle in one go. Nick was almost impressed—given the fact the beer in the wastelands tasted like piss and vinegar.

Greg set the now empty bottle back onto the counter with another toothy grin.

"Ya got anything a bit—ya know—stronger?" Hook, line, and sinker. Delilah smiled at Greg.

"Well…I mean we do have something. It's a little strong. But nothing a big strong man like yourself couldn't handle."

"Bring it on, Baby. I can handle anything."

Delilah pulled a jar of moonshine from the top shelf. The stuff could take the rust off a Mr. Handy. Nick bet Greg would take one sip and be sprawled out on the bar floor.

"That'll be fifty caps, darlin'"

"Anything for you, Doll."

Greg fished out a cloth bag full of caps from his satchel and slid it across the bar. When Delilah went to take the bag their hands met. Greg leaned close to Delilah, using his other hand to brush a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Keep the change."

Delilah's expression fell for a moment. It was becoming clear that Greg was pushing her limits. She tried to slide her hand from his grip but he tightened it. He lowered his voice, almost to a whisper.

"I'm gonna have my way with you tonight whether you want to or not."

That was it. Greg had crossed the line.

"Hey buddy, I think you've had one too many."

Greg turned towards Nick with a sneer. He seemed to sober up in an instant.

"What, ya jealous your girls into me?"

"No, I just think you outta scram."

Greg suddenly straightened back up, knocking over the jar of moonshine. The jar tipped, spilling its contents onto Nicks shirt and tie. Nick jumped back out of his stool. He reached for Greg's shoulder. If anything he'd take him out of the bar himself.

"Shit, I'm sorry." Greg quickly sputtered out. But as soon as Nick's hand grasped his shoulder he jumped back as if electrified.

" _What the fuck, man!"_ Greg stumbled back, grasping his cheek as if he'd been punched. Blood seeped from in-between his fingers and he let out a groan."The guy clocked me! I didn't do nothin' and he clocked me!"

Nick stood unable to process what had just happened. His hand hadn't even gotten near Greg's cheek. Looking around he could see the other bar patrons standing. They were all looking at him.

"Now wait a minute, I hardly touched him."

Delilah grabbed a rag and knelt by Greg. Greg pulled his hand away to allow her to press a rag onto the fresh gash.

"Get that fuckin' synth outta here." A man had stepped forward pointing towards Nick. "I knew you sons of bitches were dangerous."

"Shoulda never let one into our city" Another patron chimed in. Before Nick could explain he was being hauled out of the bar by a few of the other customers. Before they slammed the door behind him he looked back at Delilah who was still tending to Greg. She didn't even look up at him. But Greg was. As soon as he made eye contact with Nick, Greg gave him a little smirk.


	2. Chapter 2

Nick Valentine left Diamond City for the night, if anything, to blow off some steam. With a pack of cigarettes in one hand a pipe pistol tucked into the pocket of his trench coat, he wandered just outside city limits. His shoes scuffed the pocked streets as he walked. For most, it wouldn't be wise to wander alone at night outside the protective cloak of Diamond City. Valentine, however, was no stranger to the wastelands. Reborn in a trash heap and baptized by fire, Nick had spent a fair bit of time fighting tooth and nail just to get by.

It could have been a junkyard, or a parking lot. Although, Nick figured that it didn't really matter much anyway. Everything was a junkyard after the bombs dropped. The cars within the confines of the fence were no more than rusted metal shells, tires having long gone flat. Anything useful had been looted long ago and the rest remained to rot. They were relics just like him. Nick idly ran his hand over the hull of a pickup truck as he passed. Save for the rumbling of an upset sky, the landscape was quiet. It was the sort of quiet one could find peace in. It was just what Nick Valentine needed. Peace. Besides, Diamond City Security wouldn't be snooping around this far from the city. The last thing Nick needed was to have them hounding him. He'd rather spend the night in a junkyard than in the security office. It wasn't that Nick didn't like Diamond City Security, they occasionally did good work, but they also never seemed to be able to get anything done.

A soft growl roused Nick from his thoughts. A pair of yellow eyes peered from the darkness and, as Nick stepped closer, a black nose and torn ears followed. A dog who'd been napping beneath a rotten chassis now raised its head. Half of its brown fur had fallen out and what remained was thin and patchy.

"Hey boy." Nick cautiously spoke to the dog. As he did so he reached for his pipe pistol. Most Commonwealth dogs had a real mean streak to them. One was dangerous, a pack was deadly. Nick had seen a pack of mongrels tear apart a fully grown Brahmin in minutes. This particular dog didn't quite have the same look as most other mongrels. For one, it still had a nose. The dog was skinny but not yet skeletal.

The dog sniffed the air once before lying its head back on its paws. A chain snaked from the chassis to a collar around the dog's neck. It was obvious he wouldn't be able to reach far if he tried to lunge so Nick relaxed, letting his hand fall back to his side. Just to be on the safe side he gave the dog a wide berth as he walked across the junkyard.

The yard was bordered by a low stack of tires on one side. Low enough to make the perfect seat to watch the world pass by. Nick made his way towards the tire stack, idly flipping opening the lid of the cigarette carton as he walked.

"Heeey buddy, you's gotta cig?"

Nick turned, meeting the gaze of what appeared to be a man. Showers were in short supply so many people in the commonwealth walked around with a thin layer of grime and sweat on their faces, but the man who stood in front of Nick took the cake. Beneath a thick layer of dirt and dust Nick could make out two eyes and a crooked nose. The man's face was framed by a thickly matted beard and thin wisps of hair peaking out from beneath his knit cap. Nick's olfaction wasn't exactly the best anymore but the smell of whiskey coming from the man hit him like a wall. The man teetered back and forth, barely able to stand properly. He held an empty bottle in one hand. Probably what he had been drinking out of.

The Commonwealth was kind to no man, or creature for that matter, so Nick sympathized with the guy. They were all falling apart out here.

"Yeah actually I do." Nick slipped a cigarette from his carton and offered it to the man. Nick could see the man's eyes widen as he saw his skeletal hand.

"wha-?" The man managed to slur out in his stupor.

"Deathclaw accident. Don't worry about it." Nick didn't exactly want to get into his origin story with a man who probably didn't even remember his own name.

The man seemed to buy it with a slow nod of his shaggy head. He reached out and took the cigarette and put it between his lips. Or what Nick assumed were his lips beneath a pile of matted beard.

"You's gotta light?"

Nick pulled out his matchbook without a word and handed it off the man. The man squinted, struggling to open the package. He managed to open it, however not before nearly falling over. After half a dozen tries he finally managed to light one of the matches, pressing the flame to the end of the cigarette. He closed his eyes a moment, inhaling deeply. He held in the smoke for several seconds before letting it slowly roll from his nostrils.

"Thankssfer the cig." In between the cigarette and the stupor the man's words came out in one long string of syllables and slurred sounds.

The man didn't seem to be moving off anytime soon. Much as Nick enjoyed the company of a drunk vagrant, he preferred to find some semblance of solitude. Something that was somehow rare on this night.

"Have a safe night, I think I'm going to turn in." Nick offered the man a polite nod before turning away towards the gap in the fence that served as an exit.

"Wait a minute I gotta say sumthin'" Nick half turned back towards the man just in time to see a bottle smash into the side of his head.

 _.:Critical Error! Unexpected termination code 22:321. Address 0x96e11fcrt_3 impact warning!:._

 _Executing automatic diagnostic sequence_

 _**Diagnostic sequence complete…running repair code: 28_1_

 _Emrg repair complete._

 _MKR Link re-establishing {path}_

 _Link established._

Nick groaned, the world swimming back into focus from a wall of static. He was lying on the asphalt, the side of his face pressing into shards of glass. Sunlight bathed the junkyard and the cars within in a soft light. Nick blinked away the remaining grains of static and slowly pushed himself onto his knees. He winced, a stab of pain rippling across his head. Despite his robotic appearance he still felt pain. And right now it felt like a Deathclaw had used his head as a kickball. Nick reached up, rubbing the side of his head with one hand. Small shards of glass fell onto the asphalt and as he did so and he could feel a few sticking out from his synthetic skin.

He had to give the guy credit, he'd never been knocked out before. He didn't even know that was possible. Reviewing diagnostics it didn't look like there was any hardware damage. Still hurt like hell though. Using the side of a car as support Nick got to his feet, picking up his hat from the asphalt as he stood. He settled the fedora back onto his head before patting his pockets. His now empty pockets. Nick looked around but his pipe pistol wasn't lying anywhere nearby.

"Great." Nick would have pulled out a cigarette but that was gone too. Even the matchbook had vanished. This was turning out to be the second worst morning he'd had in a long while, only seconded by the morning he woke up in a trash heap.

Beyond the shattered glass sprinkled across the ground, there was no sign of Nick's assailant. Nick shook his head in disgust. Even if he found the guy it wasn't worth the effort to bring him in.

Nick walked back to Diamond City, keeping his head low. The last thing he needed was for a group of raiders to jump him. Without a gun, he'd be easy pickings. Even without any loot they'd still probably scrap him for parts. Or worse.

It was somewhere near mid-afternoon when he arrived back at the gate. Which meant he'd been out cold all night. Two Diamond City Security officers were standing outside the gate, luckily too invested in their own conversation to look at Nick twice. Nick passed through a concrete tunnel lined with posters on either side. He sometimes forgot that at one point in history, Diamond City was actually a baseball stadium. Some two hundred years ago the stadium would have been full of fans cheering for their favorite teams. To Nick's left was a poster. It was faded and cracked but one could still make out the face of a smiling man holding a baseball bat. Beneath the photo was a caption; _Curtis Brooks- All American Hero_. The old Nick enjoyed listening to the games over the radio when working on cases. Curtis Brooks had been a pitcher for the Red Sox. Relative newcomer at the time. He was young, idealistic—the perfect poster child of an underdog. Born to a poor family in Indiana he learned to play baseball in the fields his father worked for a living. Nick didn't remember seeing a single kid who didn't own Curtis Brooks baseball card. Brooks could out slug even the veteran players. He was destined for great things. Until the bombs dropped.

Nick sometimes wondered what happened to people like Curtis Brooks after the war started. Perhaps they escaped, sought shelter somewhere. Maybe they died like most of the population. It was a shame. No one in the Commonwealth, save for a couple of pre-war ghouls, even knew what baseball was. What real baseball was. Not the version told by Moe Cronin. Moe Cronin was a self-proclaimed baseball aficionado and peddler of "swatters", what he referred to as baseball bats. Moe seemed to have gotten it into his head that baseball was some kind of gladiatorial blood sport. Insisted that his "genuine swatters" were used to bash other player's heads in.

The concrete tunnel ended in the open expanse of Diamond City. In the light of day it wasn't much to look at; no more than a mishmash of shacks scattered about on what once was the baseball field. Diamond City may not have been the prettiest sight, but it was the jewel of the Commonwealth. A jewel that was one of the largest settlements in the area. It had shops, restaurants and even a school. Plus, it was where Nick lived and worked so it sure beat the rest of the wasteland.

Nick descended the metal steps into the market. Up ahead he could see a small crowd gathered in the center of the market.

Not all together unusual but even Nick knew Power Noodles wasn't that popular. Power Noodles was one of Diamond City's icons. The structure itself rose above most of the other buildings in the market and it was run by the only other robot in Diamond City Nick could stand. Through the crowd Nick could make out the green form of a Protectron wearing a chef's hat. As Nick drew closer he see people holding cups of noodles. The Protectron chef's signature, and only, dish.

" _Na-ni shimasu-ka?"_

The robotic voice repeated the same line over and over. Takahashi was a protectron of few words. Nick could respect that. As Nick passed by the crowd he heard someone say something about, "one cap noodles" which probably contributed to the influx of customers to Takahashi's little noodle stand. One of Takahashi's customers broke from the crowd and began to walk beside Nick. He was well dressed to the point of almost standing out. As the two of them passed into the sunlight Nick could see a ragged white scar etched across the man's otherwise clean and well-groomed face. He had a box in his hands from which he produced a cigar. Cigarettes were rare but cigars, cigars were nearly impossible to find.

"Heard you was workin' that Bergman case. Wanted to offer a little…insight."

Nick nearly stopped mid-stride. He turned to the man, looking him over.

"Yeah? And what's that?"

"Cigar?" The man held out the cigar to Nick. Nick took the cigar with a nod of thanks, tucking it into his coat pocket.

"Now you said you had insight on the Bergman case?"

"Yeah. Just thought I'd say be careful. Real dangerous folks out here." The man offered a seemingly genuine smile before tucking the cigar box under his arm. Before Nick could respond the man had turned heel and walked back into the crowd.

"I'll be sure to do that."


End file.
